


emptiness to melody

by mercutioes



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Dom/sub, Masturbation, Other, Sexual Fantasy, sexy glove removal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 08:11:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercutioes/pseuds/mercutioes
Summary: seivarden fantasizes about breq





	emptiness to melody

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't even finished the first book, i just think seivarden is an inherently horny character, don't @ me  
> title is a hozier lyric, don't @ me x2 combo

It’s too fucking  _ cold. _

Even here, where it’s marginally warmer and it doesn’t feel like her toes are going to fall off if her boots weren’t holding them in place, it’s still cold.  Seivarden is cold and irritable and Breq doesn’t even have the decency to take her to hear  _ real _ music, just this…  _ twanging _ , arrhythmic and unsettling.  Not to mention how the musician’s bare hands make her shift uneasily.  Her head aches, fuzzy from the kef withdrawal and, really, all she wants to do is sleep.

When Seivarden gets back to the room, she toes off her boots and tosses her gloves and coat to the floor.  She flops onto the bed. A small part of her wants to spite Breq with her untidiness but, after a moment, she rises and hangs her coat on the hook, puts her gloves in one of the pockets.

She doesn’t know why she did that.

Seivarden huddles under the blankets on the bed.  They’re rough and not nearly thick enough for the weather.  She prefers to sleep naked but in this weather she’s afraid for her extremities.  The mattress is thin and uncomfortable, the pillow too tall and hard, straining her neck.

After half an hour, she comes to the conclusion that she’s not going to sleep.

She huffs, turning over to face Breq’s side of the room.  Her pack sits at the end of the bed. It’s just clothes and knicknacks, all of Breq’s valuables stored elsewhere — she checked, of course, though that thought sends a guilty pang through her stomach.

She can’t help but imagine the look Breq might give her if she’d caught her rummaging through her things.  Well, she has an inkling — her face is still slightly bruised and tender from where Breq punched her. Unconsciously, she reaches up to feel at it.  Presses. It stings.

She presses harder, her eyes slipping closed, her breath stuttering out from between parted lips.  She still has other bruises too, all over her body. Hazy, she lets her hand wander to push at the purple bruise at the base of her neck, further to bear down on a cracked rib that the hasty corrective didn’t quite repair.

She realizes distantly that she’s hard, beginning to strain against the thick trousers that Breq had given her.  That Breq had ordered her to wear. That Breq had given her the same as she gave her the bruise on her cheek and the bed under her back and the sharp, knowing commands that spark something at the base of her spine and trickle upward to make her cheeks heat under her dark skin.

_ She’s my servant,  _ Breq had said, and Seivarden thinks she should be angry, should be livid.  She’d  _ had  _ servants and soldiers, once.  Her family, the aptitudes, everyone telling her that her blood made her a natural commander.

And now, alone on a bed on a barren fucking ice-rock, still coming down from the kef, her addled brain conjures unwilling fantasies.

She imagines her quarters on  _ Justice of Toren _ , imagines Breq in the uniform she used to wear.  Her face is impassive. She sits on one of the high-backed chairs and gives Seivarden an apathetic look.   _ Now, Lieutenant, _ she orders, bored and edging towards frustrated at Seivarden’s slowness.

(Seivarden rolls onto her back.  Her bare hand slips into her pants.  She gasps when she touches herself.)

Seivarden goes to pour tea, her hands shaking, hyper-aware of Breq’s eyes on her.   _ Take off your gloves, Lieutenant, _ Breq says,  _ they’re making you clumsy.  I won’t have you spilling my tea. _

_ I’m sorry, Commander _ .  In her fantasy, her voice is quiet, unobtrusive.  She peels off her gloves, one after the other, setting them on the table next to the tea service.

(She knows that she’s being loud as she strokes herself, but she can’t bring herself to care.)

She brings the cup over to Breq, head bowed slightly.  Breq takes it and gives her an expectant look.

(Her hips stutter upward, like she can’t move her hand fast enough to sate the sudden empty longing in the pit of her stomach.)

Slowly, slowly, she folds herself to her knees at Breq’s feet.  The uniform boots shine in the soft light of the officer’s quarters.

(“Fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” she gasps out, close.  She’s dripping, she feels like she’s going to burst —)

_ Good, Lieutenant, _ Breq says.  She rests a hand on Seivarden’s head.   _ So obedient. _

 

Seivarden lays panting for a good minute before she scrambles out of bed and into the bathroom to wipe as much of her spend off her clothing as possible.  When she’s done, she flops back onto the mattress, pulling the blanket over her. There’s a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach — guilt and fear, certainly.  Anger. But a kind of peace, too, like meditation or the first moments of a hit when everything goes a little clearer and a little quieter.

She’s warmer, certainly.  Maybe warm enough to sleep.

She wonders when Breq will get back.


End file.
